How To Deceive A Million And One Faces
by CheeryRoses143
Summary: It's rated M for a reason. Noooo...not that reason the other reason, get your mind out of the gutter. Yes, yes the blood, guts and gore reason. It will...get rather bloody in later chapters, like...I think REALLY bloody. Yep 8D


Chapter 1

He wasn't feeling himself, Canada that is. Lately he'd just been feeling that everything he did was wrong and that the world was against him. He'd begun to think that it was his invisibility starting to get to him, but when France had come to visit him that night he knew that wasn't the case; he was just...evolving you might say, but not in the best of ways. When France had knocked upon his door as the sun had began to cast into the evening, lowering in the sky that would soon become dark, he'd opened the door willingly and let the nation in with the usual polite smile and had closed the door behind the other.

The older nation had sauntered his way into Canada's living room and sat down on the couch, leaning back into the plush fabric of the soft cushions and eyeing Canada as he walked over to the seat opposite with a rather lazy gaze.

"Why're you here?" came the usual soft voiced remark from the Canadian as he took his seat in the chair.

A indolent reply made it's way from the Frenchman's lips like a snake, swerving it's way around and Canada felt like it was manipulating him with some strange and invisible force as the accented pronunciations formed words and eventually sentences, "I'm just visiting before the world meeting starts down in America, mon petite. Is it really illegal to visit my own son now?" A smirk made it's way onto France's lips and his so called 'son' couldn't read whether it was pleasant or ugly because, quite frankly, the over exaggeration of the expressions crawling their way to France's face were confusing him.

"The world meeting doesn't start for another three days, Francis," Canada pointed out, feeling rather uneasy and he didn't really know why. He let his arms travel to rest atop the arm rests lightly, his hands draping over the sides as he lowered his gaze so that he no longer had to make eye contact with France.

"Like I said Canada, I'm just dropping by~," The dragged out endings of words just made how France spoke even more repulsing for some reason, and Canada dug his fingers into the arm rests of the chair as the Frenchman continued on, "I was just wondering how mon petite lapin was fairing, it's been a while since we spoke."

_"There's a reason we don't speak any more,"_ thought Canada, though he was unable to say the words and he dared not to look up at France's face lest he be consumed by some sort of hidden demon that for some reason made him...dislike the older nation very much indeed.

Instead he stood and asked France if he'd like anything to drink, to which he got the silky and expected reply of 'Red Wine' which he'd taken to keeping in his house just in case France came over. It was better to give the Frenchman what he wanted rather than to have him go on at you about how 'uncultured' and 'tasteless' you were for not having it.

And so two glasses were poured, one with slightly more as Canada expected he'd need it, taking a sip as he took the two glasses into the living room. He kept his distance from France as he handed him the glass - not going any closer than he needed to for the glass to safely exchange hands - before once again sitting down in his own chair with a soft sigh. Quite frankly he was rather relieved for the new place to direct his eyes so that he didn't have to look at France; staring into the glass of red liquid was much more unnoticeable that shifting his eyes around the room.

After not too long it was revealed why France was really at Canada's house at a silly time in the evening: he wanted to rage about England. Catching himself before he rolled his eyes, Canada swirled the wine in the glass a little bit and half listened to what France was saying, half listened to a debate he was having with himself in his mind about how he could shut the bearded hoser up. From what he could tell, France had made a pass at England around three days ago and England had beat him up over it - Canada could only assume that the 'pass' at England Francis had made could only have been on the verge of sexual assult for the reaction it had gotten from Arthur.

With a sigh, Canada finished off his wine and stood as he asked France if he'd like another glass, to which the other nation replied 'oui' and held out his glass for Canada to take as he rested his chin in his hand, a rather bored expression making its way to his face as he twirled his hair. Suddenly Canada became rather sickened at how fake France was as he placed the glasses down on the countertop. How much of a 'douche' - as America would commonly say - his previous Papa was (though France liked to think that Canada still thought of him as such, so Canada let him keep believing if it would stop him from bursting out into a waterfall of tears over how his darling son no longer loved him).

Leaning against the countertop as he ran a hand though his hair, Canada contemplated what he could possibly do to quell the current situation he was in. France's voice was giving him a headache along with the argument he was having with himself within the crevices of his mind. He couldn't take it much longer before he felt he would all out blow up in France's face. It was then that he had an idea.

Reaching into the medicine cabinet he kept in his kitchen now (seeing as downstairs now seemed to be where he spent most of his time; why go upstairs for something when you may as well keep it downstairs?) and grabbed a bottle. He read the label and checked it was the right one before dropping five of the small tablets into one of the drinks, grabbing a spoon to mix the liquid with to make sure they dissolved without a trace. The tablets weren't poison and they most definitely wouldn't harm or kill France in any way, they were merely sleeping pills Canada had been taking recently because of the sleeping problems he'd been having, so they'd just make France take a quick nap.

And then he caught a glimpse of the knife. The debate inside his mind flared into an uproar and Canada considered it.

"_It'd make him shut up forever..._" the blonde haired Canadian thought as he reached out for the knife, "_And I'm pretty sure I'd be doing the whole world a favour..._" he felt his little finger brush over the knife, making its way down the handle, "_I could make it quick so he wouldn't be in too much pain,_" he mused as his fingers curled around the knife, "_It would be a permanent solution to a reappearing problem,_" grasping the knife, Canada lifted it and watched as it shone in the light.

"Hey Canada? What's taking you so long?" France called and Canada heard his steps as he made his way to the kitchen.

Hiding the knife behind his back, when Canada turned he was greeted by the familiar bearded face leaning against the framework of the kitchen door. He greeted it with a fake smile and a made up excuse, "I'm sorry Papa, the bottle ran out and I had to find a new one with was quite hard," he picked up the glass with the sleeping tablets in it and held it out for Francis to take with a loose grip and an innocent smile plastered across his features. When France smiled back lazily and took the glass before ruffling Canada's hair, the blonde suddenly became aware of how good he was at manipulating people.

"_I guess it's a natural skill, eh?_" he thought as he followed France into the room, knife hidden behind his back and his wine glass in the other hand. When he sat down once again, he slipped the knife in between the cushions of the chair, careful that the older nation didn't see.

France took a single sip from the wine glass before he placed it on the table and commented on the strange taste, to which Canada replied that it was a new brand and it was really quite nice after the first few sips. Cringing, France didn't drink from it again as he rambled on about England and how pissy he was and so on. Canada, however, was inwardly kicking himself because now France wasn't drinking the wine which meant he obviously wasn't going to shut up any time soon, nor was he going to go home and the chances were that he'd be forced to either sleep in the same bed as the bearded man or get him drunk before calling America and asking if he could pop down for a 2AM visit. Then he remembered the knife and the idea he'd had in the kitchen.

Standing, Canada sighed and walked over to where France was sitting (which withdrew a rather confused expression from the other male). Pushing France's shoulder back so that it was pressed firm against the chair and he couldn't move, Canada grasped the wine glass.

"Canada...what're you doing, mon chér?" France questioned before his mouth was pried open by the fingers that were once holding him, a lukewarm liquid he could only assume to have been the wine making it's way down his throat and he gagged once or twice and outwardly winced in disgust as Canada pulled his hand back. As France looked up, there was the warm smile that Canada always wore on his features but there was pain and there was hurt in those eyes and he didn't know where it had come from.

"I don't know," was the mumbled response to his previously asked question and France could only watch, his limbs growing progressively numb - starting with a tingling sensation in his fingers and building up to him not being able to move his arms or legs - as Canada fished for something slipped between the cushions of the chair opposite where he was sitting. He slumped back as he was no longer able to keep his balance and his eyes began to droop as Canada made his way back over to him.

The once innocent boy looked positively frightening as he leant over France, his head cocked to the side slightly as he spoke quietly as usual.

"I have no idea what I'm doing, Papa. Though I do know that you most likely won't feel it; you'll be asleep if I do it and if not you'll wake up and this will all be just a dream to you," Matthew's lips curled upwardly into a larger smile as he leaned in closer to Francis, "Though I don't think I'd pass up a chance such as this one, eh?"

The last thing France saw before he passed out was the threatening smile that adorned Canada's features.

It had taken Canada a while to consider his actions, which was okay because with five sleeping tablets in one glass of wine France was going to be asleep for at least twelve hours. He didn't know if he was capable of taking a life, and if he did he didn't know how he could possibly cover up what he'd done. Questions rattled through Canada's mind; where would he hide the body? Would there be any other evidence left behind? What would happen if someone found the body? Would he have to kill them too? But then that would only alert the rest of the nations wouldn't it?

Sighing, Canada ran a shaky hand through his hair and stood up straight, hands dangling by his sides and the knife held loosely between two fingers in one of them. Shortly after France had passed out he'd had a fight with himself over where he should do it or not and he'd stood, knife above his head in two hands ready to plunge it into France's chest - multiple times if need be - but something had stopped him.

Now though, oh _now _he was going to do this. He was going to go over there and do it swiftly and cleanly and even if he did get blood everywhere, that was bound to happen.

"Like baking a cake," he said to himself, "You always end up getting flour everywhere, even when you try not to," and he chuckled lightly, making no attempt to stifle the vibrations that made their way from his mouth. Why should he? No one was around to hear them except for himself.

He loomed over France for a few seconds, deciding how he should do the deed. Gently, he raised his empty hand and tilted Francis' head back so that his neck was cleanly exposed and then, with more force than he'd expected to have to use, he cleanly sliced through until he reached the large artery in the middle, twisting the knife so that it cleanly split into two. He hadn't expected that much blood to come out, however, and he took a few steps back so as not to get much on his clothes.

Unfortunately, it did get all over the couch and the carpet causing Canada to outwardly sigh as he plopped down into the seat he'd previous occupied once again. He grew rather bored rather quickly as he watched the blood spill from France's neck and he waited, waited until it stopped so he could think of a place to hide the body. He went through different places to hide it in his mind, though often they were accompanied by different scenarios in which people would find it.

Though one had built a home in his mind and he kept considering it no matter how many times he thought of how people would find out through this way. There was a tree house some way out into the forest behind his house, not far though; it was easy to find when you knew what you were looking for.

It was a treehouse.

It had been built when he and America were still small colonies. They'd watched with wonder as France, England and Scotland had constructed it with spare planks of wood and stray nails and it'd been a happy day, one of the rare occasions that the three adults had been together and not argued over something.

He'd been repairing it ever since then - touching up where it needed it, reinforcing the floor and such other things. Sometimes he would just sit in it when he had nothing else to do and simply remember and every time he did he could swear those times where happier times, no matter how little technology they'd had, no matter how much of a lack of an internet or was to communicate from afar there had been.

There had been less but sometimes less was more and simplicity was perfection.

And now he had decided. He'd hide France's body up there for how ever long he needed before he could think up a better place to hide it. He was the only one who ever visited the treehouse nowadays and if America did then he hadn't noticed.

Standing up once again, he took the few short steps across the room that were required in order to hoist and lift France's body over his shoulder. Today he seemed to be noticing a lot of the unimportant things because the first thing to come time mind was not how heavy it was, nor how awkward it was to carry a wet with blood body, but instead how much of a futile attempt to keep the blood off of his clothes previously had been because now he was covered in it.

Sighing for what must have been the twentieth time that evening, he opened the door that lead out of the back of his house and made his way into the forest. Half way in, he regretted not having the smarts to bring a flashlight as it was getting very dark at a pretty fast rate. Instead he managed to shimmy his cellphone out of his pocket and into his free hand, using what little light it gave off to find his way through the trees.

Finally he reached the treehouse, after at least ten minutes of careful stepping and almost tripping. He wondered how he would carry France's body up but decided to just give it his best shot with how they were set up now; the body over his shoulder, one hand holding it and one hand free. Awkwardly, he managed to climb up to where he was able to slip France's body off of his shoulder and into the wooden confinement and he stared at the body, contemplating whether he had done the right thing or not before a little voice kicked him into the realist view of things and pointing out that it was too late to change anything about it anyway.

He reluctantly made his way back to the house, not wanting to have to clean up the blood. Considering to wait until morning he decided not to and just to get it over and done with; if he left it that long there was no doubt in his mind that it would dry up and stain and he would have all but hell trying to get it out of the different types of fabrics. Thus, as soon as he got in, he got the cleaning products out from under the sink and scrubbed away at the carpet and the couch, shoving his hoodie and jeans into the washing machine afterwards.

Considering the fact that he probably wasn't going to sleep tonight without nightmares and the fact that he wasn't expecting company, he figured he might as well try to hide the evidence within his house a little better. He turned over the couch cushions in order to hide the lighter patches on the fabric where he'd scrubbed at it with bleach, similarly he pulled out a rug that he'd been meaning to put somewhere anyway and placed it over the lighter patches on the carpet in front of the couch, hiding them from view.

Satisfied that no one would find any evidence lest they were searching for it (in which case he would take the time to hide it better) he decided to watch television in order to take his mind off of the, for lack of a better statement, rather hectic evening he'd had tonight. He didn't bother to think up an aliby as he expected he wouldn't need to right now. It would be at three (well around two now) days before the other nations found out that France had gone missing, they would know clearly by the fact that he wasn't at the World Meeting. At that time, alarm bells would be rung and people would panic but as long as no one found the body then he would be fine, Canada would have nothing to worry about.

Even if there were searches, he doubted that anyone would take him into account because - and though he hated to admit it, it was true - he was invisible or, at least, he blended into things well. If he was asked about it, he would say he had no idea what had happened, he would act worried at the meeting because it was his father figure whom had gone missing. It was then that he realised he'd have to get better at acting.

He decided to stop worry, to shove all of this to the back of his mind and just _relax._ The last thing he needed to do at the moment was dwell on it. If he forgot about it then maybe he could act more innocent? Either way, he'd just killed France and that was all that mattered. There was one less annoyance in his life and he was happy; a reoccurring problem had been solved and for once, now that he'd kicked all worries out of his head, he felt light hearted and rather giddy but he decided that to actually watch the television he'd been ignoring for the past five minutes.

It would help. Television always helped.

Canada let himself get consumed in the program he was watching as eventually, at around two in the morning, he fell asleep on the couch and all was calm as if nothing had happened.


End file.
